


Snips and Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails

by DragonWarden



Category: Tron (1982), Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Betrayal, Tron: Evolution, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWarden/pseuds/DragonWarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My (not so) secret Santa gift to userkaydee! Happy holidays!<br/><strong>Character selection:</strong> Sam, Gibson, Tron</p><p>"Unc'an?"</p><p>The blubbery sound was the only preface to the trespasser launching itself at Tron. This time, though, he did not attempt an attack, aborted or not - in fact, he was lucky his disc had not simply slipped from his fingers. As fresh sobs began to rise from the leg it had attached itself to, Tron stared down in mute horror and croaked, "SamFlynn?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snips and Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails

Tron derezzed his cycle at the foot of the End of Line and approached the arcade facade on foot. Partly because the portal had activated off-schedule - whole centicycles before expectation - and partly because it had already been a micro-hex since it opened, and there had yet to be so much as a bit that hinted at the creator's presence. Tron had been clear across the Grid, otherwise he would have arrived sooner, but in that time, Flynn should have long emerged and made his presence known.

Instead, the arcade remained quiet and, to all appearances, abandoned.

Palming his disc, he did not activate it yet, but held it at the ready, dimming his suit lights as he slipped inside. The ambient lighting of the Grid had never seemed to be as strong here as other interiors, and the user-style point-sources of illumination Flynn insisted on cast harsh, geometric shadows. Loading their mapping from memory, Tron slid carefully from one dark shape to the next, scanning with everything he had for a presence, _any_ presence, whether it was the creator or otherwise ...

Tron's disc flared to life as there was a scuffle and movement. "Show yourself!" he barked even as he leaped atop the nearest arcade box, easily navigating the maze from above as he homed in on the noise. Too rough and uncoordinated to be the sinister scuttle of gridbugs, punctuated by an odd sniffling that ended occasionally on a high whine. He was only one row away before he calculated the trespassor's most likely position and launched himself into the air, flipping over the last arcade box to land just before them, arm swept wide for an attack -

There was a piercing shriek. Tron was startled so badly he nearly flung his disc on sheer reflex alone. The only saving grace was that the culprit was _small_ \- not even hip-height - and even smaller now as it scrunched down into a near byte-sized ball, hands over its head, screams only marginally mitigated by their new vector directed straight into folded knees. As equally unnerved as bewildered, Tron did not dare let his guard down as he pinged and demanded at the same time, "State your ident and function, program!"

The shrieks abruptly, mercifully cut off. Tron blinked as the arms loosened, the head rose, and a watery blue eye peeked out at him. In the uncertain half-and-half lighting of the arcade, it looked like nothing so much as an unfinished program - small and weirdly proportioned, soft and fragile and barely functional. In fact, as he hastily searched his archives for correlating data, there were only two instances that seemed to be even remotely related, both mere glimpses of JPGs that Flynn had proudly - 

"Unc'an?"

The blubbery sound was the only preface to the trespasser launching itself at Tron. This time, though, he did not attempt an attack, aborted or not - in fact, he was lucky his disc had not simply slipped from his fingers. As fresh sobs began to rise from the leg it had attached itself to, Tron stared down in mute horror and croaked, "SamFlynn?"

* * *

SamFlynn would not let go of his leg. They compromised for the time being with his neck. Or, rather, Tron gave in when he bent down to pry the smaller Flynn off, and the user promptly transferred its grip to his head. Standing up had the user sliding down to a more manageable position, and for the sake of maintaining any modicum of balance at all, Tron reluctantly curled an arm beneath it for support, as if he was trying to carry an awkwardly shaped bin. A wriggling, uncooperative, awkwardly shaped bin.

Mere micros later, it also became apparent that Flynn's son was not equipped with the necessary dictionaries for meaningful communication. Or, even, anything but the most rudimentary of motor libraries. Tron stood in the center of the arcade with a deactivated disc in one hand, the other fully occupied with a still mildly snuffling (and horribly, terribly vulnerable) mini-user, and still no Flynn to provide instruction, direction, or even a hearty laugh at his predicament.

Tron took a deep breath and had to carefully throttle back his energy consumption when his regulatory routines tried to ramp it up.

First-in, first-out. SamFlynn needed to return to the user system, and as he seemed patently incapable of doing that himself, that meant that he needed to be taken to the portal. In order to activate the portal, he needed a disc. To obtain a disc, they needed to visit the sirens. His course of action now defined, Tron marched determinedly for the exit and unclipped his lightcycle baton.

He stared at the rezzed cycle, down at the burden currently clinging arm and leg around his torso, considered the logistics of even the short ride to the arena, and sighed.

* * *

"Champion," the cool, airy tones of a siren greeted him as he walked into the equipping chamber.

"Gem," he nodded back, lingering near the entrance as he scanned the rest of the space.

"There are no matches scheduled for this milicycle," the siren as much stated as inquired, head tilting regally as her eyes swept him from head to toe. It was an external scan of a program's shell, the movement as much a part of her function as preparing arena combatants, but one that proved somewhat inconvenient in this case as she caught the small bundle huddled tight against the backs of his legs. Dark-lashed eyes widened.

"No," Tron agreed, chin lifting as he noticed the other siren pods opening. "I have another request. The others won't be needed."

"Of course, Champion. How may I be of assistance?" Gem asked, though her eyes never strayed from the user. Behind her, the pods obediently swept closed again.

"We need a disc," he answered promptly, reaching behind him to herd SamFlynn out. The user was all dragging feet and sulking reluctance, pressing backwards into his shins and knees as soon as it was exposed to full sight. It whined, soft features scrunching up fiercely when the Siren bent to examine it more closely, hands braced upon her knees.

"What is it?"

"Unimportant," Tron said bluntly. "I need a disc interface. Are you able to provide one?"

"Of course," Gem responded, unperturbed, as she straightened; all fey and angular grace.

There was an awkward moment as they debated the logistics of integrating a dock with the user's current attire versus modifying a conventional combatant's suit to fit. In the end, SamFlynn kept its clothes, lost its shyness, and for once, was struggling to separate its hand from Tron's in order to try and feel what was now clinging onto its back.

"Thank you," Tron excused himself as he swung the user up into the crook of his arm, handily trapping the small hands against his chest. In just the last few milicycles, he had managed to develop some basic handling algorithms for the user - proof that even chaotic systems produced the occasional, predictable patterns.

Behind him, the siren's lush lashes lowered with intrigue, lips pursed contemplatively as the door slid closed.

* * *

Since they were conveniently near the armory, Tron decided to trade in the lightcycle for a lightmobile. He congratulated himself on the idea of switching to a two-seater up until the moment when he realized SamFlynn now had enough freedom of movement to reach for _everything_. In just the space of a microcycle or two, the user reduced him to bit-like responses - no, no, _no_! - until he improvised a restraining system of sorts (and, subsequently, had to dial down his auditory sensors at the resultant caterwauling).

Comforting himself with the thought that this entire ordeal will be over in just a micro-hex or so, he nearly missed the buzz of an incoming request amidst the user's half-hearted wailing and reluctantly opened the channel. "Tron here."

_"Sir, how far away are you from the sector Delta-three hangars?"_

Tron's brow knit. "I'm actually on my way there now. ETE is 14 microcycles."

_"Oh thank users. We've got a situation that could use your - what's that noise? Sir! Are you under attack?!"_

Tron paused in pure bewilderment before he realized that SamFlynn had actually stopped to take in the strange voice that had filled the compartment before redoubling its efforts at making its displeasure known. He had become so inured to the sound that he had barely registered its renewal. "No, it's nothing to be concerned about. Just filter it out as best you can," he grimaced. "What's going on?"

There was a moment of clear hesitation before the program continued tightly, _"If you're sure, Sir. There was an earlier altercation between some isos and basics. We broke it up as quickly as we could, but there were a lot of witnesses ... "_

Tron's jaw tightened at what was becoming a familiar story. He didn't know when or how opinions had begun polarizing like this between isos and basics, but he noted grimly that he had to deal with the effects all the same as the security program detailed the tense crowds arrayed in the public spaces, just a flashpoint away from mobbing. "I have fragile cargo with me," he interrupted when the report began to descend into specific stats. He winced as SamFlynn punctuated it with a particularly vicious howl. "If the situation is really that sensitive, I can't endanger it; I would need to detour - "

_"Sir, please, I think your presence alone could act as a dissuasion, and this is the largest transport hub in the city - "_

Which was part of the reason why he had been headed there with SamFlynn in the first place. Proximity, the air assets he needed, and potential anonymity in its size and activity. Except that the last would no longer be available, and the second was not even guaranteed anymore if there was trouble in between. Tron was forced to consider the odds between the time he would lose in diverting to another hangar and all the trouble he could potentially encounter in between ...

SamFlynn began to hiccup between his sobs, face awash with frustrated tears and snot.

Decompiler take him, but maybe it was better to deal with the dangers he knew than with any unexpected ones he couldn't predict. "Understood. I'll be there in 10 micros."

* * *

The amount of security he had to be waved through was not reassuring him that he had made the right decision.

Two checkpoints, and looking up at the hangar ports, he could see the lines of trains and freighters overhead already building up as traffic was slowed and diverted. SamFlynn had finally settled into exhausted whines; the one time Tron had attempted to rest a comforting hand on one small shoulder the user had been sent into fresh paroxysms of upset. Feeling as drained as if he had already been through several dozen micros of negotiation, Tron finally parked the lightmobile discreetly behind the shoulder of a crawler, releasing a long breath as he considered the red-splotched, mulish set of the user's face. "Believe me, SamFlynn, I am just as hopeful that this will be all over soon," he sighed as he slipped out.

He winced as the door closed on a rising wail when the user realized he was leaving, and he hastily locked down the vehicle; commanding all interfaces to himself alone and darkening the windows for good measure. Not a complete blackout, but enough that the casual glance wouldn't make out the precious cargo inside. "I'll be back soon, and you'll be safer here," he tried to assure himself as he loped away quickly.

"Sir!" It didn't take long to find either the security program who had called him or the main mass of the trouble. The dull roar of tense voices filled even the vaulting spaces of the main hangar bay, and Tron had only to step past the line of parked vehicles he had been weaving through to see the crowd shifting restlessly around a stopped train - most likely the vehicle that had brought in the initial group, but which has since attracted many more, like filings to a magnet. In fact, when the security program finally caught up with him, he took Tron's arm to nudge him back out of clear earshot of the nearest interested parties - the peripheral elements were not actively participating yet, but all had set expressions of either unease or disgruntlement. There was a clear divide running through the entire group, the parties on either side facing each other across a line populated by tense security guards.

"How long have they been like this?" Tron asked, voice pinched as his gaze flitted from the barely-controlled-crowds to the rows of lightjets stowed on the platform past them. He would have dearly loved to take the lighter models that may be available in the security control rooms abutting the observation bays behind him, but their single-flyer cockpits would not accommodate SamFlynn easily.

"Long enough, Sir. We're not quite past the point of no return ... if you could try to talk to them? There were some harsh words - " He winced at a choice epithet thrown, clear even over the general grumble, and there was a brief flare of movement as the guards pushed back a small perturbation in the unofficial divide between the groups, " - _are_ some harsh words, but they all respect you."

Tron fought against another sigh. While normally he would have already been striding boldly forward, he couldn't deny that he had other concerns currently distracting him. But his hesitation was not helping either situation, and so, with a last resigned look toward the two and three-seater lightjets, he acknowledged the program's plea with a nod. "Programs, isos - !" he called out, projecting his voice over the crowd as he began to walk toward them.

He could hear his name circulating before he had taken more than three steps. He was already busily tagging the nearest faces with degrees of potential interference and incitability, was opening his mouth to continue his address -

 _Whump_.

Tron staggered. Ahead of him, he could see the same ripple of disturbance that had swept over him raking through the crowd like a wave, sending programs and isos alike off-blaance, before he whirled around. The nearest security were no slower in turning toward the source, but they had all managed only a half dozen steps before there was a scream.

Deathly silence settled just long enough for a female to stumble into sight from around a parked outlands-trawler, eyes wide with abject terror as she tripped over her own feet in her haste to run away. "Help! Users save us, it's going to destroy us all!"

Tron could almost _hear_ the stutter of his core routines grinding to a halt. The disturbance, and the program, had both come from the direction of the lightmobile in which he had left SamFlynn.

He barely heard the utter pandemonium suddenly erupting behind him. He ignored the incoming pings from security, attempting to coordinate and strategize with him. He was barely aware of his disc, abruptly in his hand, lit bright and buzzing viciously enough to hum all the way to his elbow, as he jumped onto the first vehicle and took the high route.

A small handful of mechanics and hangar personnel fled beneath him as he leaped and sprinted his way toward the lightmobile, taking the most direct route possible. The results of the disturbance was obvious even before he was perched atop the crawler he had parked beside, staring in horror - the portion of the crawler closest to the lightmobile sagged pitifully into the space where its left-front wheel used to be, a good quarter of it simply missing and the damaged edges still gleaming a bright, electric blue. A full half of the lightmobile - the half which SamFlynn had occupied - was gone as well, and the remainder of the vehicle was a crazed, jagged mess of damaged surfaces. Even as he watched, the majority of it shivered, slumped, and cascaded into piles of derezzed voxels.

It was rare that Tron found himself so locked up that whole microcycles would pass, but the rest of security had caught up by the time he shook himself from his paralysis, dropping shakily to the ground.

"What in the creator's name - "

"Users, is this some new weapon the isos developed - ?"

"Shut it! I don't want to hear that sort of talk in my own squad - !"

Tron took a single step before he was on the ground, hands pressed tight against it, yanking up local logs so brutally that the nearest security jumped back at the sudden flare of light and data. The ghostly imprint of a small body, the skeletal outlines of where the lightmobile had used to stand ... and his visual sensors nearly swam as he detected the trail of tiny feet that pattered clearly away, deeper into the field of stowed vehicles.

Users do as users will, and this was a user and a Flynn to its very core.

"We have a track. Silas, Bren, Jan, you're with me. We'll follow it to the - "

"No!" Tron pushed past the squad leader, sharply enough that the program staggered, already breaking into a lope. "I will take this myself."

"But - Sir!" The call after him was equal parts irritated and concerned. "We have no idea what threat it represents - "

"I said I will take this! Don't you still have a riot to subdue?" Tron snarled without bothering to glance back, darting out of sight as he followed the footprints around a pylon.

Just how far could something so small get in the time it had? Apparently, farther than Tron had counted on, as he followed the weaving steps between one vehicle and the next, brushing past the occasional dazed or running program. In fact, he was so focused upon the trail that he barely registered the sound of a voice before he was stumbling out into the open, blinking up from the ground to finally find his quarry - hands clutched shyly upon the edges of its shirt, rocked up almost upon the toes of its feet, expression rapt - with another program hovering over it.

"Hm, not really the strong conversational type, are you?" the program mused, half-bent over with a hand braced upon a knee, the other raised to SamFlynn's eye level with a brightly lit data piece playing between the fingers. His green-limned circuits did not illuminate anything beneath the hood drawn over his head - all Tron could see was the point of a chin and the thin, amused smile just above it. "I've met bits that were chattier than you. Let me guess, you're a new breed of encrypted compression algorithms - ?"

"Step away," Tron warned in low, short tones.

The data piece vanished as if it had never existed, and SamFlynn whined in disappointment. Straightening, the program raised his hands at the sight of Tron's bared and activated disc. But the disarming smile and the insouciant cant of the hips more than declared the program's lack of appreciation for the threat - he barely bothered to shuffle back a step as Tron advanced steadily upon their position. "Ah, we're playing lost and found? You lost it, I found it, but I can be a good sport and let you take the credit - "

"Just go. There's already more than enough going on in this hangar right now to occupy you," Tron snapped, more impatient than concerned now as the program declared his neutrality.

What he didn't expect was the rebellion from another quarter, as SamFlynn uttered a furious squeal at his touch and squirmed away, stumbling toward the stranger program and trying to duck behind his legs.

They both stared down at the scowling user before the program looked up at Tron and shrugged. The smile, somehow, had acquired a sharper edge. "Oh, look now, it seems to have a mind of its own. Are we respecting the individuality of all special Koch curves this cycle, or is that not on the agenda?"

Nonplussed, Tron was still trying to formulate a plan of action that would result in something above a 10% chance of a willing and biddable SamFlynn when there was a distant, tearing groan of over-stressed edges ... and then the unmistakable _crump_ and crackle of major structural damage.

Even the user's attention was caught, expression taut and anxious as shouts and screams rose over the hubbub. "SamFlynn, come here _now_!" Tron had no more patience, no more _time_ as he dove forward. The green-circuited program twisted aside, hand rising for the disc on his back, but Tron ignored him as he scooped up the squalling user, warning the program away with a slash of his disc.

The program barely bothered to twitch away. He was, apparently, enough of a combatant to realize that the strike had not been serious. "Tron, the champion, the Grid's protector, kidnapping a program? What would the gossips say?"

"That programs should keep to their own business," Tron retorted, barely taking the time to secure his hold on his squirming passenger before stretching out into a run.

The user's small feet and hands flailed and pummeled. His balance was uncertain enough with the constantly shifting distribution that he dared not take a more direct route overhead, but instead, wove through the labyrinth of vehicles and equipment on the ground level. His directives clashed and needled him, reminding him with every fresh ruckus, every fleeing program he passed, that he was ignoring one of his primary roles. When there was an explosion close enough to make Tron wince and stun even SamFlynn into temporary silence, he reluctantly opened the security channels to get a sitrep ... and had to wince again at the chaos that the frantic reports outlined.

There was a full-out riot in the hangar now. Security's attention was divided between trying to contain the physical damages and calming the mobs. While the worst of the fighting and vandalism had thinned a bit along Tron's chosen path to the lightjets, there was no predicting the ebb and tide of the violence ... the stats lurched and leaped in just the handful of micros in which he monitored them. Taking stock of where the security forces were occupied, he reluctantly keyed his own ident into the comm and ordered, "Forget about the energy pumps, nobody's moving anything until this is cleaned up! Let them frag, we need coverage in the third quadrant - "

He barely registered the huddle of SamFlynn against his side; the user was no longer screaming, but now clung to him as tightly as the first time they had met, shivering. He absently shifted his hold to something more comfortable as he continued to snap out orders, trying to keep tabs on the movements across the hangar floor as he wove a circuitous path toward the far platforms. 

Perhaps he was just too distracted by the top-down view; perhaps he had relaxed a little too much as the security forces, now showing a bit more coordination, began to define some static boundaries to the conflict. But the fact remained that the flicker in the corner of his vision caught him by complete surprise - and when his disc swept up out of sheer reflex, there was a curse as it drew a thin line of light across a program's chest and another disc whipped toward him in response.

He dropped SamFlynn. With so many conflicting pulls on his attention, he couldn't even recall if it was intentional or not. But there was a high-pitched yelp as he lunged forward to block the striking arm before their attacker had leverage, and his other elbow, now free, cracked into the program's face, sending it crashing down. The user was only just sitting up, looking more bewildered than hurt, when Tron dove over him, tackling a second program before he could strike.

Tron had been too concerned about the larger body of rioters. The few lone individuals that had broken away had slipped mostly unnoticed through the maze of the hangar floor. Now they were a harbinger of the larger conflict shifting their way; a slow trickle that kept him occupied and distracted for long, crucial microcycles.

The situation was rapidly become untenable. "Run!" he shouted at the user when he had a nano's space to do so. If they could shift their position, change the playing field - 

Something hit the backs of his knees while his attention was shifted away. Tron fell back with a grunt, the program he had been struggling with nearly knocking the breath from him when he followed. Barely twisting his head aside in time as a disc came down, he blinked at the dance of sparks from the edge as it bit into the floor beside his cheek. 

"No! Bad!"

"Ow - !" The program atop him flinched, began to shove away, then winced again. Each movement was accompanied by a dull _thump_ , and only when the program shifted to reach behind did Tron see SamFlynn perched upon his assailant's back, disc clutched gamely in chubby fingers, whacking away enthusiastically at the program's head. In its inexperience, the user's disc was still inactive, dim and unlit, cutting edge dulled. It was the only reason why the program still had a head.

Growling, Tron heaved himself onto an elbow and jammed his forearm into the program's throat, throwing him off. As his attacker fell back, choking, he reached for SamFlynn - 

Only to have two sets of hands abruptly shove him face-first into the ground.

SamFlynn's shriek of indignation rang in Tron's ears as he spat leaking energy from a split lip, craning his head back at an awkward angle to see the user flailing in mid-air. A program with pale blue circuits had scooped it up, holding it at arm's length as it considered the wild, ineffectual struggles. "What is this? What has the champion of the Grid so distracted that he's ignoring a full-scale riot and willing to kill isos?" he sneered.

Tron bucked. He managed to dislodge one from his back, but the other cursed and shifted his hold, digging an elbow into a circuit just to the right of his spine that made his entire side go uncomfortably numb. Gasping, he snarled, "I treat isos with the same privileges as I do any program on the Grid - if you obstruct the dispension of my directives, I _will_ put you down. Let it go, then we can talk."

The iso laughed, a bitter and ugly sound. Tron froze as there was a buzz and new light in the iso's free hand - a disc, now activated. "Talk? Just like how you basics just 'talked' to us over there by the train at the start of all this? I think there's been enough _talk_ by now, maybe it's time for _action_ \- "

Tron shouted wordlessly, lunging against the pinning holds, managing to drag all of them by a meager half-length across the floor as the disc rose -

A shadow limned in green lights crashed down upon the iso. SamFlynn tumbled to the floor with a wail as the iso folded, out cold before he even hit the ground. One of the programs on Tron's back started up with an angry noise, and with equal parts panic and relief at the new respite, Tron twisted and folded himself nearly in half, hooking one leg around the remaining program's neck and yanking him over his hip. Barely taking the time to deliver a palm-heel strike to the program's nose, knocking him out, Tron lunged up onto his feet ... to find the third program out cold too upon the floor. Over it crouched the hooded, green-circuited program, already coaxing a sniffling Sam back with a waggle of clever fingers, the data piece from before gleaming enticingly between pinched fingertips.

"Thank you," Tron said, because he was grateful, but not grateful enough that he didn't stretch out to snag SamFlynn before the user could step into arm's length of the program. For once, the user did not fight him; even mumbled the unintelligible, inexplicable, "Unc'an," into his shoulder before turning just far enough to peek out at the stranger.

The program stood with an easy smile and a fluid shrug, as if to show that there were no hard feelings. "You're welcome. I never did like Shinko anyway. Always wanted an excuse to do that." Tron turned the words over silently, glanced between the program and the iso sprawled inelegantly nearby, and came to some conclusions. The program took in his expression and confirmed his suspicion - that he was another iso - with an even wider smile. "Quid pro quo? I know its something special. You called it SamFlynn."

Tron's mouth tightened as he curled his arm a little more snugly around the user. "And I think that is more than enough 'quid' for your 'quo'."

The iso laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Guess that teaches me for listening to rumors! You've got a sense of humor after all; it just needs a little more - okay, who are we kidding here - a _lot_ more care and feeding. But, since we're on the subject, wanna hear another rumor?"

Tron's gaze narrowed at the new edge that entered the iso's half-hidden expression; carefully parsed the too-cheerful tone. He was beginning to feel impatient again, afraid of what else might come their way as he dallied, but the iso had been, thus far, incredibly competant, and if not an outright ally, at least seemed willing to play the role on occasion. "What rumor?"

"That fight at the beginning of all this?" the iso said, abruptly sober, mouth drawn grim and taught as he stepped back toward the shadowy bulks of the equipment behind him. "Caused by some nasty tempers. Nasty tempers belonging to the elite and the favored - those closest to Clu."

Tron's brows snapped down as he started forward. "What do you mean by - "

The iso's head shook beneath his hood, a quick flash of teeth within the shadows, and then he whirled; jacket flaring behind him as he ran off.

* * *

"Jordan, honey, look, it's not a big deal - what? No! You've been complaining to me for the last three months about how you haven't had any time to yourself or to be with any of your girlfriends, so I'm trying to be a considerate husband ... oh, c'mon, are you seriously saying that you don't trust me to keep Sam fed and bedded for just two nights?"

Kevin struggled to withhold a groan, pacing as far as his tether of a telephone line would allow him to in the narrow aisle between Astro Blasters, Pac-Man, Pong, and an older - _vintage_ \- version of Space Invaders. "Honey, darling, love of my life, no you don't need to come back home, I just came to the arcade to get some extra work done, you know I always do my best thinking here. I'm a responsible father, so I brought Sam with me instead of leaving him at home alone - hey, maybe I want to spend some time with him instead of leaving him with my folks all the time, okay? - and see, I know it's his bed time, which is why I've already put him down on the cot in the office where I was working - " He winced at the strident tones that followed. It figured that Jordan would catch on to the unimportant words, such as 'was', and he reluctantly trudged toward the secret entrance behind the Tron game.

"Jordan, no, I just stepped out into the main arcade _briefly_ so that our conversation wouldn't wake him up, he's right there and I'm walking over to look at him right now - "

_"Daddy daddy daddy!"_

He was nearly bowled over by a knee-high speedball as his son slammed into his legs. "Ow! Hey there little buddy, what's - what? No, no, Jordan, I wasn't talking to - er, no, no you didn't hear Sam, that wasn't him at all. That was - that was Alan, sorry, he's come over to keep me company, I gotta go, bye!"

Wincing as he hung up on his wife mid-word, he reached down to scoop Sam up, grinning even as he had to struggle to keep a hold of the squirming, hyperactive toddler. "Whoa, kiddo, what's going on here, what's got you so worked up? I thought you were already asleep ... c'mon, maybe another story 'bout the adventures of the Grid Warrior Tron will help?"

* * *

Feeling more worn and run-down than he has in this entire cycle, Tron nevertheless felt a certain amount of satisfaction as he walked into Clu's office. A satisfaction that rapidly wilted when the administrator noted, "I just received the damage reports from the riot."

Tron grimaced and ran a hand over his face. Clu stood before the windows overlooking the city; the brilliant shaft of light that had been shining on the horizon long gone now, taking SamFlynn with it. Resolutely rolling his shoulders back, Tron admitted, "It was not the most orderly of resolutions."

"It must have been quite the scene, if even your presence didn't manage to mitigate the effects much."

Tron grimaced, feeling strangely off-center and uncertain. Clu may have had frequent complaints about Flynn's abstract ways, but he had his own odd moments that Tron thought were not so much explained by his administrative status as were actually user-like.

"That was a short visit."

Tron couldn't quite withhold a sigh this time, though he managed to keep it mostly soundless. Flynn's absence was becoming a touchy subject, and he didn't know what was worse - to say that the creator had made only a brief sojourn this time, in which he had not even bothered to see the sysadmin, or that he had, in fact, not visited at all. "It seemed to be mostly a test," he temporized.

Clu made a noncomittal noise and shut down his data stream as he turned away from the view. As he passed, the administrator clapped a hand to Tron's shoulder. "You look like you're about to fall over, old friend. Go get some R&R - you've earned it. I'll try to think of what measures I can put in place to keep those isos from disrupting things on such a scale again - bad enough that they encourage the presence of gridbugs, but those transportation hubs are essential to the system's health. We can't be having you running all over the Grid breaking up every riot that starts over some hurt feelings."

Tron's chin lifted sharply as he half-turned to follow the departing admin with his eyes. "Measures? Hurt feelings?"

Clu waved a gloved hand carelessly over his shoulder. "Reports say that some words were thrown around and the isos decided to take their offensive to a physical level. The cause doesn't really matter though, not when the damage is on this scale; it just simply has to stop, no excuses. Go on, get out of here, Tron. You have more important things to do than to babysit these flare-ups, we'll talk about what I'd like you to start working on when you're back up to spec ... "

Feeling more worn and run-down than he has in the last thirty cycles, Tron stared uneasily at the door's blank face as it closed behind the admin.


End file.
